


Pretty, Pretty Please (With Sugar on Top)

by MissNessarose



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Car Accidents, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pining Clint Barton, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7307182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNessarose/pseuds/MissNessarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee: some like it hot, some like it cold.<br/>Clint likes the annoying kid who talks too much and comes in with his sister nearly every day.<br/>Not that he'll say that out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty, Pretty Please (With Sugar on Top)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based purely on the fact that my best friend and I practically live at our local coffee shop. A lot of the subtle notes and commentary on the store, coffee orders, and seating arrangements come from personal experience.  
> As cliche as coffee shop AUs are, I couldn't pass this opportunity up~!

_One large caramel iced coffee with cream and sugar; one large french vanilla iced coffee with cream and sugar._

Clint had seen the kid almost every day for about a year, now. He came in with his sister so often that they might as well have lived here, at the shitty corner coffee shop that always played bad music from the 90s and had more flavors of donuts than anyone ever wanted to buy. _Sister –_ well, Clint _hoped_ the dark-haired girl was his sister. They hung off of each other, always grinning, seemingly speaking, thinking, and acting in tandem to each other. If they weren't dating, then they were really close, and Clint prayed that the latter was the case; the kid was rather attractive, and it would have been a shame if he was already taken.

In all honesty, he doubted that the pair ever got anything productive done while they were here. He supposed that they were college kids, always coming in with laptops and textbooks and work to do, but more often than not they simply sat in their regular place – their usual spot was the corner with the two cushioned armchairs and an outlet for chargers – and laughed and chatted, staying until they realized how late it really was and hurried off.

 _Pietro and Wanda Maximoff_ , he finally learned, after one late night where they both forgot their lanyards and student IDs on top of their usual table. (They came back for them within the hour, so it wasn't _technically_ theft if he just kept them safe for them, right?) It offered Clint a chance to finally know the names of the pair that so often frequented the shop. _Twins, about twenty years old._ And college kids, as he had so rightly assumed.

Sometimes, when it was getting late and they were still hanging around ( _loitering_ , he liked to point out, even though they always bought coffee when they came in, and he enjoyed their company), he'd sit around while he finished cleaning the tables and they'd talk about their classes, people they hated, and life in general. They were fun kids – _kids_ , he called them, even though they weren't that much younger than he was – and pleasant to hold conversation with, always funny and polite and sometimes leaving a tip on his rougher days. Wanda was a sweet girl, Clint thought, who rarely dressed in anything _but_ skirts and seemed cheery and serene even on the cloudiest of days. Her boyfriend was a programmer that her brother just didn't seem to like, for whatever reason.

And speaking of her _brother –_ the kid was annoying in the way that your younger cousin always was, but was handsome in ways that Clint wasn't sure were possible, even including his shitty smirk and the fact that his hair looked like a burnt-out bleach job. He was a snarky but well-meaning asshole who could come off as rude at times, but his insults were always tinted with just enough humor that Clint laughed every time. It didn't mean that he didn't want to throw a stack of cups at the kid, though. Pietro had never mentioned a significant other, and Clint dreaded the day that he found out his helpless pining was all for naught. Still, it hadn't come yet, and a guy could hope, couldn't he?

They always came in during the afternoon when iced coffee was a dollar, and they always got the same thing. She always got caramel, and he always got french vanilla. The simple stability of it was something he found pleasing, actually. He had their orders memorized by heart, and if it was a slow day he could have both of their coffees done and on the counter by the time they got up to the register. It was a slow, dead-end job, but seeing those two somehow made it all worthwhile, especially if he could get a smirk out of Pietro. Then he could handle whatever got thrown at him.

It was weird to think that when winter came around again, the pair wouldn't be sitting in that corner anymore.

= = =

It was only late December, but already this winter had decided to be particularly rude by covering the city in as much ice and snow as it possibly could. The drifts weren't too high, but the ice below made the sidewalks a bitch to walk on, and streets hell to navigate.

Wanda had been playing on her phone all afternoon, and both she and her brother were wrapped in sweaters and scarves, looking perfectly content to be bundled up in their usual seats. It had been slow today, and he'd told Nat to go ahead and take her break early, that he'd watch the place. In her absence, Clint stole a few of the cheesecake square donuts – what his manager didn't know wouldn't hurt him – and sat down in the corner with them.

“You guys going anywhere for break?” he asked, trying to make idle conversation. He hoped, secretly, that they wouldn't be going anywhere far; their accents hinted at European ancestry, but he wasn't sure if they had merely grown up there, or moved over here when they got older.

“Upstate, for a few days. To our father's,” Wanda said, as her brother groaned. At his protest, she kicked him under the table. “Don't whine, he's not that bad!”

“That's what _you_ say. He _likes_ you.”

“That's not true, and you know it. Besides, Lorna's coming this year – ”

“ _Fuck.”_

The way their sentences cascaded off one another automatically always made Clint grin. They were so naturally in-sync with each other that their prattle turned into snappy comebacks and commentary that was always amusing to listen to.

“Sister?” he asked, sipping at his own coffee.

“Half-sister,” they both answered simultaneously, though Pietro said it in a distinct monotone.

Clint laughed. “Oh, shit.”

“And Billy and Tommy are going to be there, too, Papa said that he was sure they were going to make it, even with the weather.”

Pietro groaned as he reached for his coffee, pulling his legs up onto the chair and towards his chest. “Those _fucking gremlins.”_

“They're only ten, Pietro!”

“Gremlins?” Clint echoed distantly.

“Cousins.” Wanda corrected. She dropped the subject, draping her long hair over her opposite shoulder to look out the frost-studded window at the cars that hurried by on the busy street.

The drive-thru wound around the far side of the little building, a consistent hazard due to assholes that couldn't take their time and actually _look_ for pedestrians. More often than not they grabbed their drinks and whipped around too quickly, scaring some teenagers that had just left and headed out the door. Clint had only seen a few accidents in his time working here, but Nat told him plenty of horror stories, even though he was _pretty_ sure half of them weren't true.

“Are _you_ going anywhere? Any family?” Wanda asked, her bright smile back after their minor argument. Pietro remained bitterly curled up in his chair, tossing his legs over the arm rest.

“Yeah, my sister's. She's all I've got left. My friend Nat's coming with, she generally does. My sister's kids love her, she's basically an honorary aunt.”

He pulled out his phone to show Wanda pictures of Cooper and Lila, snapshots of birthdays and outings and far too many shots of him in fairy wings and a tiara, at his niece's request. Wanda was too eager, happy to talk about the kids with him and her own cousins, who she absolutely adored. Her boyfriend was coming along with them too, apparently, something her father wasn't too happy about.

Clint nudged Pietro, who hadn't said anything in a while. “Hey, kid, if you don't wanna go, you can always come sit here and bother me while I work.”

He chuckled, and the smile that followed was exactly what Clint was shooting for.

“No, I think I'll take my chances with my father over being stuck with you.”

Wanda paused, unsure of whether to kick him for being rude, or to laugh, but when Clint blatantly feigned offense, she cracked a smile.

“Hurt,” Clint choked, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “I'm hurt by that statement, you know.”

Shrugging, Pietro sipped at his coffee and finished it off. “You'll get over it,” he murmured, waving a hand dismissively. Wanda checked her phone again, looked at the time, and drank the rest of her own coffee in one go.

“It's late,” she said, interrupting their casual conversation. “We promised we'd meet Vizh for dinner before we left tomorrow.”

' _The boyfriend_ ,' Pietro mouthed bitterly, upon noticing Clint's quirked eyebrow.

They were leaving _tomorrow_. Meaning, Clint wouldn't see them for a few days, and this was the last chance for a proper goodbye that he had and didn't know about. Not that it was a big deal, of course. He was just the guy that was always on shift when they came in. It wasn't like they were _friends_ or anything. Or that he'd miss Wanda's brother.

Nah, no way.

Clint hoped that Pietro would be okay. He wasn't quite sure what had gone down in their family, but he'd never heard the kid so quiet before.

“Oh,” he said, scooting out of their way. “Well, have fun.”

“Yeah, as if that were possible,” Pietro shot back, his tone more bitter than it had been. He remembered how _last year_ had gone, what had happened and what had been said, and he certainly wasn't excited to see his father again. At least he still talked to Wanda, after last holiday. In comparison, Pietro hadn't spoken to him in months.

Wanda didn't reprimand him this time, only rolled her eyes and silently dunked her empty cup in the trash can. “Have fun at your sister's.”

To Clint's surprise, she enveloped him in a hug, while her brother settled for a nod and a small wave. He was still angry about the whole thing, and leaving here only meant it was closer to _going._ Pietro stalked out the door without another word, and Wanda followed after.

Yeah, he'd miss those kids while they were gone.

The distinct thudding of an impacted body broke his thoughts, accompanied by the screeching wail of tires. And Wanda was _screaming_. He ran to hastily open the door that had just been shut, not caring that cold air was blowing into the store.

Clint knew that fucking drive-thru would get somebody hurt one day, with the way assholes in this city always had somewhere to be, without a care for speed limits _or_ pedestrians. He just hadn't thought that it would be the asshole with the badly-bleached hair that he always thought was pretty when he smirked, and secretly looked forward to seeing every day.

There was blood in the snow and on the pavement, and Wanda was _shrieking,_ the sort of siren's wail you only heard in movies.The businessman in the car had since dropped his phone into the passenger seat, his coffee spilled over his suit and his face frozen in shock. Already, somebody across the parking lot had their phone to their ear, speaking frantically to the operator on the other end of the line.

 _God_ , Clint hoped, _just let this kid be okay. I hate him some days, but if I can't hear that shitty accent one more time, then I don't know what other reason I have to stay here._

= = =

Clint had given Wanda his cellphone number, told her to call and let him know how things went, to give it to the police if they wanted another interview about witnessing everything. Tearfully, she saved the contact to her phone, wiped eyeliner-blackened tears from her eyes, and told him goodbye.

She'd called from the waiting room just to update him, her words blurry through her sobs, and said something about surgery before she hung up; Clint sat in the back room and hoped with every fiber of his being that it wasn't serious. The one thing that interrupted the silence aside from the humming of the ventilation was Nat, coming back from her break to find him sitting among the boxes of straws and napkins, a dead look in his eyes. His hands were shaking.

“Holy shit, you're in a state.” Bluntness was her general way of speaking, but he knew just from knowing _her_ that she was concerned. Only a little. “This have anything to do with the cop car still parked outside?”

“Yeah.”

It was all he said; all he could bear to say.

“Those kids already leave?”

“...yeah. And one got hit by some asshole on his way to a business meeting who couldn't drop his phone for two fucking seconds.”

“Which one? The cute one with the shitty hair you won't admit you like?”

“Yeah.”

As she pieced things together, they started to make much more sense. And she understood why he was cowering by the boxes now. Any other day he would have denied her accusation of _liking_ Pietro _–_ the boy was in complete and utter denial – but today...no. So it was serious.

Rather than go and man the counter, Nat sat with him in the storage room in silence and let him cry. Only a little, though.

= = =

It was two days before Clint knew anything. Wanda – _alone_ – came in, as if it were usual, to get her regular coffee. But he knew her, and this wasn't right: her hair was tousled, it hadn't been brushed, her bright eyes were dull, and her clothing was rumpled. Likely, she'd slept in it at the hospital. He'd known that life, before, when his sister had complications with her second child.

“Hey,” he said, offering her a smile. He wasn't sure what else to say to her. She glanced down at the counter and bit her lip, and he got to work on the usual. “You still feeling caramel today?”

“Yeah.” After a moment of silence, Wanda twisted her fingers together and began to talk a little more, in nervous, rambling sentences. “He's okay. Not dead, I mean. They still want to keep him, though, he basically shattered his entire leg – ”

“Holy shit,” Clint let slip, his hand fumbling and pumping flavoring half down the side of the cup, rather than _in_ it.

“ – and they said that it would be fine once it started healing, they've already made a cast and everything, but he lost a lot of blood from his side and he hasn't woken up at all yet, and I, you know, I wouldn't be worried because they said, they _said_ that normally it's all fine, he just has to sleep off the rest of the anesthetic and heal himself, but the last time they said that...my mother died hours later, so I mean, I just...I just.”

She cried at the front counter for a good five minutes before she took her coffee and left, back to the hospital where she would sit patiently for hours in a hard plastic chair. Clint found it rather funny how she hadn't even noticed how he'd paid for her, but she was still scared and worried and upset; it was to be expected.

He _really_ hoped the kid would be okay.

= = =

When Wanda came in the following afternoon, it was sunnier, and her smile certainly matched it.

“Better?” Clint predicted, grinning when she nodded eagerly.

“He hasn't shut up since he woke up this morning.” She smiled back, although her grin was a bit more guilty. “I promised I'd bring him coffee.”

Already, Clint had a cup and was beginning to pump flavoring into it. _French Vanilla_. “Yeah, I figured. You two and your caffeine dependency is what keeps this place running, you know.”

Her eyes sparkled for a moment. She laughed, and it was the first one he'd heard out of her since the accident. _Good_.

“They said he should be back on his feet in about a week and a half, but until then it's therapy and lots of pain medication. He probably won't have the cast off for months.”

Whipped cream carefully topped off both of the coffees (a treat he knew these kids deserved), and Clint shrugged. “I mean, you said he shattered the whole thing. I wouldn't be surprised. But he's tough, he can take it.”

A pale hand dug into her coin purse for a dime, but Clint reached across the counter and offered her the receipt between two fingers. “Don't worry about it for today,” he said, smirking. “Today's on me. For him.”

“Oh...thank you.” _That's two smiles today, Barton. You're on a roll._

Snatching up a few markers out of the array behind the counter, he scribbled names and a quick message on the plastic cups, watching the way Wanda grinned when she took them.

“Have a good afternoon,” she said. The door jingled on her way out.

He'd only bought the new markers just to match _them_ , now that he thought about it. ' _Wanda'_ written in red, and _'Pietro'_ written in blue, followed by: ' _Get well soon, kid. This place is a hell of a lot quieter without you.'_

Oh, the kid would be _pissed_.

Perfect.

= = =

“Asshole.”

It had been slow today, too, and Clint was nearly asleep sitting behind the counter when Wanda's voice startled him. “Hey! What did I do this time?”

“That's what he said,” Wanda clarified, giggling. “When he read the cup. _Asshole_.”

“Figures. You want the same?”

“Please.”

She had nowhere to be immediately and no one else was coming in, so she stood at the counter and chatted for a little while as Clint took his precious time putting her order together.

“ – he _hates_ the therapy sessions, and he's always fidgeting when he's not up, and complaining if he's on his feet. You know, he usually likes running. Sort of a fitness geek. At least it's winter, so there isn't much he could be out doing, anyways. If it were nice out I know it would absolutely kill him.”

Clint quipped, “So he's being more of a pain in the ass than usual?”

“Basically,” Wanda laughed, sliding a few dollars across the counter and telling him, kindly, to keep the rest for himself. “Only a few more days, though, and then they said they'll send him home.”

“Good.” Clint found himself smiling, genuinely. “That's good.”

Only a few days. He was glad.

= = =

Wanda came in a few more times over the course of the weekend, in various stages of disarray and sleep deprivation, but always with a smile. When he saw her a week after the accident had happened, she was holding the door open for her disgruntled brother, who didn't seem satisfied with the way he had to cram his crutches in through the doorway.

“You really should make this place more accessible. Particularly this rudely narrow doorway.” The first thing he'd heard out of the kid's smart mouth was a fucking insult. As _usual_.

“Nothing I can do about it, man. I just work here.”

It was later than usual, when it was already dark out and most of the usual stray table-campers had already cleared out for the day. But for them, Clint could wait another hour. It was a longer, more difficult path to maneuver between the tables and chairs to their table in the back, but they made it work. Knowing no one else would be coming in, Clint scooted over another one of the spare armchairs just to give the kid a footrest.

“I get fucked up in your parking lot once, and now you're my slave?” Pietro commented, smirking at Clint's readiness to help him prop up his injured leg. “I should do this more often.”

At his easy dismissal of the situation, Wanda frowned. She reminded him, “You could have died.”

Shrugging it off, he leaned back into the armchair. “What's life if you don't live a little, yeah?”

“You're lucky that's supposed to heal!”

“You kids want the usual?” Clint interrupted, heading back behind the counter. He was already getting cups ready before they even agreed.

He knew them too well.

And it was good to have them back.

= = =

Things were back to normal, if with a few added twists and turns that came with healing and navigating the long path of shattered bones and painkillers too weak to do any good some days. Whatever came their way, they continued spending regular amounts of time at the store, but Clint started supposing it was less for caffeine dependency and more to have someone to talk to.

Clint started trying to make a few moves, now that he had more time to do so.

The sarcastic jokes and flirting were second-nature to their relationship already, so he had to up the ante. Make it more obvious. He hoped that the kid wouldn't _laugh_ – god, the thought of rejection hurt.

When they came in, he got the usual ready and scrawled his phone number on the napkin he handed to Wanda, sure that it was wrapped securely around the french vanilla coffee. If either of the twins noticed it, they didn't say a word until they were about to leave. Hobbling up to the counter on his crutches, Pietro flashed the crumpled napkin at Clint with an amused smirk on his face.

“Don't you think you're a little too old for me, Barton?” he teased.

Clint shrugged, “Hey, I had to try.”

Pietro rolled his eyes, but let it drop before Wanda got tired of holding the door open for him.

He never gave the napkin back.

But Clint noticed that he hadn't thrown it away, either.

_Small victories, Barton. One step at a time._

= = =

If Pietro ever reciprocated his little notes and advances, he never showed it. Clint had almost started to back down and give up hope when the little bell over the door rang, and he looked up to see the asshole in question coming up to the counter, alone – and unassisted.

“Hey,” he commented, taking in the view of the clunky boot replacing the cast that had been there just a few days ago. “Looking better. Little lopsided, though.”

“You're telling me.” Every step looked awkward and almost painful, but Clint admired the kid's determination. Even if he limped. “It sucks.”

“But it's better than the plaster cast, right?”

A smirk, a nod, and a short laugh, in brief succession. Good start.

He couldn't help but ask, “Where's Wanda?”

It was rare that the two were separated – now that he thought about it, Clint had only ever seen them apart when Pietro was in the hospital. Had something else happened?

“She's on a _date_ ,” Pietro answered, scowling (and to Clint's relief). “Left me all by myself. Irresponsible, don't you think?”

“I think you can handle an hour or two without a personal slave, kid. You want the usual?”

Generally, there was a fleeting ' _yeah_ ', followed by some other commentary or form of bitching.

But not today. Pietro shook his head, and was quiet for a long time.

Then, he said, “No, I just wanted to stop by. No one's here anyways.” Not a lie: the place was absolutely dead today. “Wanda's not home, so it's not like I have anything interesting to do. I was just wondering – ”

“Wondering?” Clint repeated softly, intrigued.

With absolutely no warning, Pietro leaned over the counter and kissed Clint. He would have been less stiff if he hadn't been so _startled_ – after all of his subtle (and not-so-subtle) attempts, the kid denied everything only to walk in and straight up kiss him? Of _course_ that was something he would do. Clint almost laughed, were it not for the lips on his own.

When Pietro pulled away, he swept some hair out of his face and smirked.

“She's out on a date, so I was wondering if I could get one of my own?”

Clint decided to take his break early.

 


End file.
